University of Virginia Library

When Goody Grim this tale had ended,
To which the list'ning crowd attended
Quoth the goodman, a preaching nobler
Than what you have made on a cobler,
I'm sure is no where to be seen,
Although the text was very mean;
Yet our Mas John, who knows each letter
Of Greek, I think, could scarce do better;
Nor any preacher in our nation,
Make a more proper application.
Goodwife, bring here the brandy bottle,
For now I swear by Aristotle,
That Goody Grim deserves a dram.
As soon as said, the bottle came;
The dram is fill'd; old Goody drank it,
And then her host and hostess thanked.
Ingratitude I always hated,
Tho' by a clerk it was debated,
And prov'd, quoth Grim, no beastly fault;
Beasts grateful are when men do halt:
In this great point, which must be wonder'd,
For one such person harms a hundred.
Good folks, since you have been so kind,
As poor old Goody Grim to mind,
And for a tale to give a dram,
Here, take another of the same.

There liv'd a gentleman, possest
Of every thing could give him rest,
Full satisfaction and content,
Large were his lands, great was his rent,
And all from debt and jointures free,
None of his stock sunk in south-sea;
Fine were his houies, great his trade,
Of all things else great store he had,
Choice parks and prospects, forests fair,
Fine gardens, walks, and wholesome air,
Great flocks and herds, fine ponds and fishes,
And every thing that mortal wishes;
His neighbours friendly and sincere,
Save only one, as you shall hear;
And to compleat his ease and rest,
Was with a faithful Steward blest,
Who knew his business exactly,
Of wool could tell where every plack lay;
What in the year he could make of it,
And best improve the same to profit;
What store of beef, and pork, and tallow,
Could serve himself, what he could allow
To be expos'd to publick sale,
What casks of cyder, beer, and ale,
Butter and cheese, were in his cellars,
What cash brought in by money-tellers;
What bales of broad cloth in his ware-house,
Of all things else how great his share was;
Careful of all, no man can doubt it,
As well within door as without it.

The Steward finding that Nick Frog,
A cunning, crafty, cheating rogue,
Who liv'd hard by him in a bog,
Upon his trade was still incroaching,
New schemes and projects daily broaching,
To rob his fish-ponds and his spices,
By black and murdering devices,
Resolv'd to make him count and reckon,
For what he had unjustly taken;
And doce down, for his fair fiddling,
His frauds, and vicious intermeddling.

This straight made Nick to look about him,
And plot to ruin and to rout him.
His wits he racks, and his invention,
How to accomplish this intention.
Men never need to raise the devil,
To help them out in any evil
Design; he's still at hand, and watching,
To help them when mischief they're hatching:
Away runs Frog to good John Bull,
With whims and maggots fills his skull,
(This was his name; full well I knew him,
Before Nick Frog did first undo him;)
Buzzes and whispers in his ears,
Strange bugbears, lies, and groundless fears,
To make him dread his trusty Steward.
Tho' never man had a more true heart,
To Bull, nor more his int'rest minded,
Till by this rogue he was quite blinded,
As afterwards he came to find it.

Who would believe what strange bugbears
Mankind create itself, of fears
That spring like fern, that insect weed,
Equivocally, without seed,
And have no possible foundation,
But merely in th'imagination,
And yet will do more dreadful tricks,
Then witches riding on broom-sticks;
Make men bewitch and haunt themselves,
And raise hobgoblins, imps and elves:
This is observ'd in Hudibras,
And in John Bull came all to pass;
Who, by his fears, was so much haunted,
And by this cunning rogue enchanted,
He dream'd of pious frauds and tricks,
Of bells, and books, and candlesticks,
And in his vap'rish fits would clatter,
Strange things of beads and holy water;
Fancy'd his steward slyly came,
His paunch with horned heads to cram,
And glibly make him swallow down,
A strange beast with a triple crown;
Instead of flesh, make him to dine
On bread, without one drop of wine.

With these strange fancies so possest,
That night nor day he could not rest,
What does John Bull, in this condition,
But writes to Frog for a physican!
'Tis true, a scorpion's oil is said
To cure the wounds the viper made;
The adder's skin some ease may bring
To pains occasion'd by the sting;
The eating of a mad dog's liver
From dang'rous bite may men deliver;
And weapons, dress'd with salves, restore
And heal the hurts they gave before;
But whether Nick such magic had,
As salve apply'd to bloody blade,
Or virtue in him, as the vermin,
Those who have try'd him can determine.

The doctor comes, an arrant quack,
Who gravely first his head did shake,
Feeling his pulse; then made a face,
And swore his was a dang'rous case;
Full well, he said, he understood it,
And that he must be purg'd and blooded,
Take laudanum to make him sleep,
And leave his shop to Frog to keep;
Nor could these symptoms bad evanish,
Till first his Steward he did banish;
All thoughts of trade he must give over,
If he expected to recover;
And then, since exercise is good
To rectify and cleanse the blood,
To ease the head, and fully clear it
Of vapours, and to chear the spirit,
To help the stomach and digestion,
(The truth of which no man needs question),
He must no more loll like a fool,
But get him to a fencing-school;
To play at back-sword, cudgel, fleuret,
Would ease his pain, or fully cure it.
You have, quoth quack, a dang'rous neighbour,
Who lives not very far from the door;
A hect'ring, rambling, blust'ring bully,
Who minds to treat you like a cully;
Unless ye beat him back and belly,
And tame his huffing, I can tell ye,
He'll bring your Steward back to vex you,
And with more fears and cares perplex you;
Up then, and stoutly lay about you,
This rogue just now begins to doubt you;
Be sure he cannot long resist you,
Nick Frog is ready to assist you,
And help you out of all your lurches,
Providing he gets all the purchase;
Old father Hocus ready stands,
And esquire South, with heart and hands,
To help you, Sir, to beat and bang them,
Or, if you please, to head or hang them,
You have a strong confede—racy
To tame the rogue, who is grown saucy,
And make him eat his meat in order,
And keep himself within his border.
What will not evil council do!
This many instances can shew;
And then it clearly did appear,
When't made a man stick his own mare.

The Steward is a-packing sent,
And all things topsy turvy went;
The shop's lock'd up, the pond's neglected,
None but the doctor is respected,
By whom good Bull was so much blinded,
Nothing but boxing now he minded,
Back-sword and quarter-staff, and dagger,
With which he then began to swagger,
Like errant Knight, in quest of dangers,
To quarrel and fall out with Strangers;
And then, to find some new adventures,
His Neighbours Grounds he boldly enters,
Pretending he came to defend 'em,
To view their Marches, and to mend 'em,
And had, by Scale and Compass, found,
(He said) in measuring their Ground,
And all their Marches, they were such,
Some had too little, some too much;
But that it should be so no longer,
He'd help the weak against the stronger,
And stoutest of them all would challenge,
To bring things to a better Balance.

When this new trade he was practising,
And riding a-Don Quixotizing,
Oft times, e'en take my word upon it,
They claw'd the stople of his bonnet,
And made him, in some sad disasters,
To call for surgeons, and for plaisters.
When any thing he had made of it,
Frog came and swept away the profit.
Meantime, by blooding, and by blist'ring,
By purging, vomiting, and clyst'ring,
By toiling much, and little eating,
By want of sleep, and frequent sweating,
His blood and spirits all were gone,
He look'd e'en like a skeleton:
His wealth all spent on fencing masters,
And paying drugs, and pills, and plaisters;
His thrift and trade was all neglected,
And sums of debt immense contracted;
And yet his maggots never left him,
But of all common sense bereft him,
And made him now grow so delirious,
(For strength he had not to be furious),
To send for German mountebanks,
On him to play their knavish pranks.

As ravens never fail to flock
About a dying horse, and croak,
Expecting richly there to feed,
How soon the poor old beast is dead,
Yea, frequently, you'll see them strive
To tear and eat the flesh alive;
So men, when in their worst conditions,
Are haunted by these mock physicians.
The mountebank, who had no skill
To cure, but came his purse to fill,
First, gravely twisting up his whiskers,
With a grimace began his discourse,
Which, that he might make just as brief as
Was possible, had no word of preface,
Pretending well to know the matter,
Cry'd, plunge the patient in salt water;
No remedy, in sober sadness,
But this, can cure him of his madness.
From bed they haul him, where they found him,
And duck'd him so, they almost drown'd him,
Which brought him to a worse condition.
Then, quoth another fine physician,
One cure remains, and I will try it,
To bring him to a meagre diet;
He must be fed on froth and bubbles,
(Strong meat will still increase his troubles),
And nothing drink but water-gruel,
Wine to his fever would add fuel;
But first we must apply loch-leeches,
To a certain place within his breeches,
I think 'tis call'd, by great Cardanus,
Or some good Latinist, the anus;
Blooding the hemorhoidal veins
Will clear his head of vap'rish pains,
And these brought from the German coast,
Will longest stick, and suck the most;
Lest any harm befal his body,
He must be kept in safe custo—dy,
And have strong men to watch and ward him,
Nor can he grudge well to reward 'em.
His neighbours must be brib'd and taught their
Lesson, to forbear from laughter;
For should he find that they did mock him,
Most heinously it would provoke him—